


the antoinette j crowley gender story

by ivermectin, orphan_account



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (they sort it out though), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is part of a girl gang...... shh, Declarations Of Love, Discussion of deadnames, F/M, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Getting Together, Miscommunication, Original Characters - Freeform, Other, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Post-Canon, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), amongst other things, crowley uses she/her pronouns, fem Crowley, is it considered breaking up and making up if they weren't together to begin with ?, speaking of. crowley Does Not go by Crowley anymore, thats what this fic is about, trans feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-12-21 07:20:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21071045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivermectin/pseuds/ivermectin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Aziraphale isn't sure what's bothering his best friend.The aforementioned best friend wants to be addressed as Antoinette, not as Crowley, but isn't sure how to ask.What's a demon to do, but go and get drunk by herself?What's her angel to do, if not ensure she gets back home safely?In which misunderstandings are un-misunderstood, apologies and declarations of love are made, and two celestial beings get their act together (finally!)





	the antoinette j crowley gender story

**Author's Note:**

> this is one of the most self-indulgent fics i have EVER written... was gonna dedicate it to my beloved calyflower but it is just Too Self-Indulgent for me to give anybody else, u know? it was meant to be, like 2k words long. as you can see: that did Not happen. 
> 
> this is a conglomeration of many things and ideas: firstly, the very canon fact that these two just Do Not Communicate like normal people and it's a wonder they get Anything done (lbr, most of the time, they don't.) secondly, the fact that as far as GO canon goes: Crowley's always the one extending a limb, reaching out to Aziraphale, making allowances for him, etc, and keeps getting turned down multiple times. that sort of rejection stings (& is very easy to internalise.) i wanted a fic in which Aziraphale acknowledged that he'd hurt Crowley, even if that wasn't his intention. so i wrote this. thirdly: i keep seeing headcanons and fic that address fem!Crowley as "Antonia" and while that is SUCH a beautiful name........i just love the energy "Antoinette" embodies. i personally feel like that suits Crowley more. 
> 
> i've put this baby thru, like, 3-4 rounds of edits, but im a sleep-deprived uni student, so there IS a possibility i've missed something. feel free to @ me if you catch any errors (though hopefully, you won't, lmao)

“Antoinette?” 

Crowley frowns, shifting on the couch, her serpentine back doing something that no notochord should be able to do. The look in her eyes is reminiscent of another time, another age; before the Apocalypn’t. _What, you don’t like it?_

She doesn’t verbalise that, though. It’s unlikely she’s even thinking it, Aziraphale figures. He’s always been the one who found it easiest to live in the past.  


“You really expected me to go with Anthony, of all names, when I’m feeling femme?” she asks, answering Aziraphale’s question with more questions. “Where’s the style in that?” 

_I just wish you would tell me these things by yourself, and not leave it until I find out, _Aziraphale thinks, but does not say. Yet again, Crowley’s voice comes to mind unbidden. _Angel, you never asked. _It’s easy for him to remember, clear as day, the moment in the Church when he’d realised that a group of Nazi spies somehow knew his dearest companion’s full name, and that he’d never realised, never even _known _that there was a question to be asked there.

“I go by Aziraphale all the time,” he says instead, knowing that it’s not enough but hoping Crowley sees it for what it is. An offering. Something that isn’t an apology as much as an acknowledgement. _We’re different, you and me. Not in the ways that matter, but in the little things. My sweet girl. I didn’t know it wasn’t like this for you._

Crowley smiles. “Yeah, I know,” she says, impossibly soft. Then, in a fluid moment, she lifts herself off the couch. “Catch you later?”

Aziraphale can’t help the flash of disappointment he feels, for some reason. _Stop that, _he tells himself. _She has a whole life outside of you. You don’t own her._

He doesn’t verbalise this, he just nods. “Yes, of course, darling,” he says. “You know where to find me, after all.”

-

She sits by her wardrobe, clothes in piles around her. She wants to wear all silver to the girls’ night out, at her favourite queer bar. Still, something in her heart hurts.

Maybe it’s irrational, but she can’t stop thinking about Aziraphale’s gentle surprise. _Antoinette?_ he’d said, and the name had sounded like poetry, spilling from his lips. But that was all. Just a moment to test it out, feel the weight of it on his tongue maybe, never to use again. Crowley would always just be Crowley. It’d been six millennia, after all.

It isn’t that she _wants _to swap over to Antoinette full-time, either. The name has a certain ring to it, a certain lilt. She likes the way it sounds, the way it feels. There’s nothing deeper, no historical significance, no symbolism, nothing.

Anathema’d thought of it first. They’d gone shopping together, after all, there was nothing half as glorious as occult forces coming together in alliance over something like aesthetics.

“Do you go by Anthony all the time?” she’d asked, respectful enough that it hadn’t hurt, curious in the way that allies are when they want to ensure that they don’t unintentionally say something that could cause harm.

“Only on really masc days,” Crowley had said (she hadn’t been Antoinette just then. That was yet to happen.)

Anathema had hummed, looked thoughtful. She hadn’t brought it up again until around 45 minutes later, when she’d said, with a certain weight to the words, “Antoinette.” 

Crowley’d raised an eyebrow. “Sorry?”

“I know it’s not my place, but do you feel like it fits?” Anathema had asked. “Antoinette J. Crowley?”

Crowley had closed her eyes, thought it in the empty space of her mind as loud as she could. It had felt like a shooting star.

“Yeah,” she’d said. And that was that.

-

She goes with silver for once. Antoinette J. Crowley is very stylish, after all. Much more than her counterparts of other genders. The way it catches the light reminds her in part of her own snakeskin, and partially of the stars and galaxies she’d put together so long ago.

Antoinette uses a silver hairpin that’s shaped like a snake to keep her hair out of her face. She considers ditching the sunglasses, but she’s not ready for that just yet. She puts on her darkest, plum-coloured shade of lipstick, but makes sure that her other make-up is bordering on the pastel side of things. She wants to look like something sweet, at least for one night.

The dress comes up to her knees, but she knows that it’ll show half her thighs when she sits. _Good_, she thinks. It’s fun having a human corporation. She knows the club she’s going to, she’s friends with the couple who run it. They’re as inclusive as it gets, but have a firm No Bigotry policy. They’ve kicked out transphobes and racists relentlessly before, and anyone behaving in a way that threatens the safety of the other patrons, or is otherwise disrespectful, is always dealt with firmly. She knows that she’ll be safe there.

She grabs her snake heels, slips into them easily. They make her feet somehow look more elegant, more dainty. Like her ankles were worth writing romantic fiction about. She knows she doesn’t need the extra height, but it’s worth it. She grabs a black handbag, small enough to carry around four apples and little else. In it, she puts her phone, some emergency money in case she gets too drunk to miracle anything up, and a little bottle of cologne. Again, not strictly necessary, but it’s for the aesthetic.

Antoinette is going to get absolutely sloshed tonight. She smiles, sends in a message to Tanya, one of the women running the club. Her wife, Michelle, is usually the one coordinating these events, but Tanya handles most of the technology. The first time she’d seen them, she’d immediately thought, _that could be me and Aziraphale. _If anyone asks her, though, she will deny it. Keeping up appearances, all of that.

She takes out her phone and opens Uber. It’s time to call a taxi.

-

Aziraphale isn’t worried about Crowley. She often does things by herself, he knows this. She’s been a part of who knows how many events around the city, most notably modern art exhibitions, but on occasion he’s seen her hanging around slam poetry sites and open mics, too. He wouldn’t be surprised if she went drinking by herself too, except that it’s always been _their _thing. Which is why when he gets the call, he _is _surprised.

“Uh, hi,” someone says, a young woman in her 30s, Aziraphale’s angelic instincts provide. “I’m Michelle. My wife and I co-own and run the club Cassandra’s Night Out, yeah?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says. He keeps himself informed on the LGBT+ scene around the area, after all, someone has to, and he is a Certified Being of Love. “I’ve heard of it, I just fail to understand why you’re calling me. Isn’t tonight your girls’ night?”

“Yeah, about that,” Michelle says. “You know AJ?”

“AJ?” Aziraphale says, confused.

“Tall, sort of lanky, tells me she identifies as genderfluid. Looks like she’s in her 40s, brilliant red hair, too vibrant to be dyed, snake tattoo on the side of her face? Usually wears all black, I think?”

_Oh, _Aziraphale thinks. He hadn’t known that Crowley went by AJ, and realising that made another little shot of shame pulse through him. How much about Crowley did he not know? How much about Crowley was he not meant to find out?

“Yes, I know her. She’s my best friend,” Aziraphale says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. “Is she alright?”

There’s silence for a minute.

“She’s very drunk,” Michelle tells him. “She’s one of our regulars, so I can tell you with utmost confidence that I’ve never seen her in such a state before. We didn’t want to call you, but we were running out of options. She just drank an inhumane amount, and right now, she’s miserable and crying and talking to God.”

Aziraphale swallows, feeling a heavy weight settle in his stomach. The thought of his dearest friend in such a state does not even bear thinking about, and it breaks his heart knowing that it’s happening.

“I mean,” Michelle goes on, “I know what you’re probably thinking; we run a bar, we see all sorts like this. But something’s off about her. My wife and I are afraid that if we leave her to her own devices, she might do something rash. We called you because you’re on her speed dial, on her mobile.”

“She let you use her cellphone?” Aziraphale asks, horrified. Crowley _never _does that.

“Yeah, she didn’t seem to care, even. She’s kinda out of it,” Michelle says. “I asked her who we could call, to take her back home, and she said to call ‘Angel.’ I’m guessing that’s you?”

“That is me,” Aziraphale says. “I’ll be there in a minute, my dear. Is someone taking care of her?”

“Tanya – oh, that’s my wife – is sitting with her in the back room.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says, and then hangs up. He takes a deep breath, and then does one of those things he usually does not do – miracles himself across the city, to where he knows the bar is.

His best friend is miserable in a bar, refusing to sober herself up, if he understands Michelle’s account correctly. This is _not_ a frivolous miracle, anyone who thinks otherwise can take it up with Aziraphale’s right hook.

-

Antoinette is having fun at first, of course. She drinks a reasonable amount, does some karaoke, talks to some of the regulars about their lives (it’s so nice to see familiar faces), drinks some more, goes outside, smokes a cigarette, tries not to think about Aziraphale and ends up thinking about nothing but Aziraphale, goes back in, asks for disastrous alcohol combinations, drinks an unreasonable amount, plays monopoly with someone called Barbara and her fiancé, Lucy, cries when she loses, complains about white supremacy, thinks about colonization, cries a little more, finds a trans woman called Bianca, asks her to read e e cummings’ poetry aloud so she can listen, cries more, drinks more alcohol, etc.

Time passes in a weird way. Being immortal means that Antoinette’s grasp on time is shaky at best. She drinks some more. People are leaving, and she feels unsettled, somehow unsteady deep inside. She wants to hurl every single empty shot glass at the wall and watch them all shatter. She doesn’t, though. She loves this bar.

She drinks some more. The bartender is beginning to look concerned. This is the amount of alcohol that Aziraphale _and _Antoinette drink together, which is to say, twice as much as she’s used to. She chugs it down anyway, and things get a little blurry.

She just wants the pain to end. Is it difficult for her because she’s Fallen? Is this part of the ineffability that Aziraphale keeps talking about? The bottomless pit of loneliness in her chest? The fact that he’s never going to love her for who she is? The fact that who she is, is, in itself, too dynamic? _You go too fast for me, Crowley. _Antoinette can’t stay still. Of course he can’t love her. Of _course._

What’s the point of immortality, then? If your best friend is _incompatible _with you? Has plenty of other people to _fraternize _with?

“Life is so difficult,” Antoinette says to the ceiling. Why is she looking at the ceiling. “Life is too difficult, I don’t want in anymore. I’ve given him, so many years, if he isn’t going to love me now, he isn’t going to love me ever.”

“Antoinette, hey, no,” a voice says. She frowns, turning to face the source of the noise.

“I’m alive just for him,” she says softly. “Just for him. That’s why I wanted the holy water, you know. They would’ve killed me, for him. I understand how it is, I really do. Just meant to crawl in the ground, I am,” she giggles, but it’s bitter. “Even God hates me. They all do. Upstairs doesn’t understand me, I’m too faithless for them. Downstairs wouldn’t mourn me. I’m too deep in love for those fuckers. Ah, shit.”

“You’re not making much sense, love,” another voice says. Antointette blinks, tries to focus. _Tanya and Michelle. _Of course.

“M drunk,” she says, tries for a smile. “Thought it’d help. It’s making it worse.”

“Is there anyone who can take care of you?” That must be Michelle. “Take you home, see that you’re alright?”

Antoinette fidgets with her bag, puts one hand in, pulls her phone out.

“My best friend,” she says, and realises with a sudden pang of horror that she’s not sober enough to say Aziraphale. “My angel.” She hands the phone to Michelle. “You’ll know when you see it.” 

“Okay,” Michelle says. “Be right back.”

“How much have you had to drink?” Tanya asks, gently. No judgement in her tone.

Antoinette lets herself lean forward, resting her head on Tanya’s shoulder. Tanya, to her credit, does not flinch, even though Antoinette is clearly drunk enough that puking is absolutely on the table, and nobody wants to be puked on.

“Not enough,” Antoinette mumbles. “But also, doubtlessly, too much.”

“You’re going to be okay,” Tanya says, softly. Her hands wrap around Antoinette carefully.

“Did you know that moose swim?” Antoinette asks. “Can dive as deep as 20 feet, y’know?”

“Is that so?”

“Yep,” Antoinette says, popping the P. “That’s why the orca whale preys on them. Did you know. A whole whale, eating a moose.”

“I didn’t know that,” Tanya says.

Antoinette moves away from her, slightly. “Google it. You don’t believe me, ‘cause I’m drunk as arse. I know. Google is sober though. Use the machine!”

Tanya laughs, and gets her smartphone out.

“God’s creatures, great and small,” Antoinette mutters. “All so fucking weird.”

Tanya snorts, with amusement, likely.

Michelle returns then, with the phone. She gives it back to Antoinette.

“There you go, love,” she says. “He’s on his way.”

“He’s coming for me?” Antoinette asks. She can’t help the surprise in her tone. In the past, it’s been her coming for him most of the time, to get him out of trouble. She doesn’t think Aziraphale has come to the rescue, ever. Mostly because she usually does not _need _to be rescued. What was she thinking, really.

Antoinette flops down on the ground, her back pressed against the cold, wooden floor.

“M a silly snake,” she murmurs.

There’s a noise at the door that sounds like a jingle.

-

Aziraphale is unsurprised when the door swings open barely a minute later. A woman with blonde hair that’s dyed blue at the ends and multiple ear piercings, who is wearing a button down shirt and faded blue jeans, opens the door. She’s either white or white passing, but she has a “BLACK LIVES MATTER” pin on her shirt all the same. Aziraphale decides to come back at a later time and bless her. 

“I’m, er, here for AJ?” he says.

“Yes, of course,” she says. “I’m Michelle. Right this way.”

They’ve taken Crowley to the back room, which Aziraphale supposes is a relief. Crowley invented drunken brawls, after all, and got a commendation for it, but after a certain amount of alcohol she gets only too happy to punch people first and ask questions later. The most notable instance of this was the time Crowley punched a Buddhist monk in the face because she’d mistaken the religious swastika for the Nazi one. Sober Crowley would not have made that mistake.

“You’re not a snake,” a woman wearing all black, with long hair and henna patterns on her hands, insists. She’s also wearing a big bindi that’s the same shade of red as Crowley’s hair, and Aziraphale can hear the slightest hint of a Punjabi accent in her voice.

“I ammmm,” Crowley insists. She’s sprawled out on the floor, limbs askew, glasses slightly crooked. “I crawl through grass for fun. You should be scared of me!”

Aziraphale decides to intervene before things get worse and Crowley turns into an actual snake and gets kicked out of her favourite bar for good.

“Uh, hello,” he offers, waving.

“ANGEL!” Crowley exclaims, sitting up instantly, making Aziraphale wonder how _anybody _could be that flexible. “You came.”

“Of course I came, my darling girl,” he says, walking up to her and sitting down next to her.

He smiles at Tanya. “Thank you for taking care of her.” 

“Of course,” Tanya says. “Do you need anything? Should Mich or I call a cab for you, or?”

“Need an Uber,” Crowley murmurs.

Aziraphale gives her a careful glance. “Could you give us a moment, if that’s okay? I need to talk to her.” 

“Certainly,” Tanya says.

She leaves the room, looking back at them once before she shuts the door.

-

Her angel is here, and he is so _warm. _Antoinette makes a happy sigh noise as she moves closer to Aziraphale and wraps herself around him in a very serpentine fashion, as if each of her limbs is a snake of their own.

Aziraphale’s arms wrap around her, easily.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, gently. Kindly. In his very special Principality voice, the one that says, _Hello, I was put on this planet to protect you, and I will take care of you now, do everything within my power to keep you happy and safe and content._

If Antoinette had been more sober, maybe she wouldn’t have said it outright. But Antoinette was as drunk as it is possible to be without passing out. The hangover from this would last a whole week, if not for demonic miracles. Thank Satan for those, seriously.

“Just wanna be Antoinette,” she says, slurring her words a little.

“And you _are _Antoinette, my love,” Aziraphale says, gently. One of his hands is beginning to comb through her hair. He doesn’t usually do that, so she must be looking extra pitiful, she supposes.

“Not to you,” she mutters darkly.

“What does that mean?” Aziraphale asks, and he sounds hurt, somehow. Hurt enough that, even in her current state, she picks up on it. “What do you mean, sweetheart?”

“I’ll always be Crowley to you,” Antoinette hisses, tensing as she admits it. “You only ever call me Crowley. Never Anthony. Never Antoinette. Never AJ. Never anything else.”

Aziraphale makes a sharp gasp, and Antoinette feels his intake of breath as if it’s an action conducted by her own body. Ah, the wonders of physical proximity.

“My dear,” Aziraphale says. And then, tenderly: “My Antoinette. Do you think you could sober up, my darling? We need to talk about this a little more, and I want you to be able to process it fully.”

-

“Don’ wanna get fully sober,” Antoinette mutters.

Aziraphale frowns. She only gets like this when she’s truly miserable.

“Don’t sober up fully, then,” he says. “Just enough that you can process what I tell you, and remember it.”

Antoinette moves a little, sitting ramrod straight and slightly further away from Aziraphale. Aziraphale resists the urge to cradle her in his arms, to let her rest on his lap.

After a moment, Antoinette gently takes her glasses off, and hands them to Aziraphale. Her yellow eyes have some semblance of clarity. He can tell she’s still not sober, but she’s not as wildly drunk as she was earlier.

“Whoopee, that was embarrassing,” she murmurs, under her breath.

“No,” Aziraphale says, gently reaching for her hand. He holds it in his. “Please don’t feel embarrassed. It’s alright. Happens to the best of us.”

“I’m certain you’ve never been in this predicament before,” she says, and she sounds slightly bitter.

“I’ve never been as drunk as you were just now, certainly,” Aziraphale says, “but remember that time I nearly got guillotined because I wanted to eat some crepes? If we’re keeping score of who ought to be more embarrassed over the millennia, it’s likely me.”

That manages to put a smile on Crowley’s – _no,_ Antoinette’s – face.

“Finally he admits it,” she says, softly.

“Yes, rather,” Aziraphale says graciously. “Now, Antoinette, my dear. Is that what you want me to call you? Antoinette?”

She turns to face him, her expression unusually open, practically vulnerable in its sincerity. 

“Yes,” she says. “It keeps changing, you know. But for now, I just really want to be Antoinette.”

She looks away, and Aziraphale can see tears well up in her eyes.

“My sweet girl,” he exhales, gently putting his arms around her, and letting her lean into him. “I’m sorry, truly. I didn’t know.”

“Crowley is fine,” she sniffs. “But not all the time. If you’ve been worried that you’ve been, deadnaming me or whatever – ” She broke off for a minute, looking uncertain.

Strange, how acutely she knew him, Aziraphale thought, and how he was still piecing together pieces when it came to his understanding of her. 

“I didn’t know,” Aziraphale says again. “Back in the ‘40s, you remember, surely? At the Blitz, when that double-crossing spy called you Anthony J. Crowley? That was when I realised that you had a full name, that you had names other than Crowley. You didn’t tell me, and I thought that you didn’t want me to know, or didn’t need me to know. I’m sorry if I made you feel like you _couldn’t _tell me. I just wanted to give you space to tell me on your own terms.”

Antoinette hums.

“Even the name Antoinette,” Aziraphale says. “I only found out because I saw a letter addressed to you this morning, sheerly by accident. I thought you didn’t want me knowing.”

“_Angel,_” Antoinette says, tenderly. “We’ve both been such fools. I thought you didn’t want to know.”

“Antoinette,” Aziraphale says, putting every ounce of love that he can feel into the word. “I _always_ want to know. You always tell me when you switch pronouns, my love. This isn’t much different. I know I slipped up a few times, when you changed your name the first time to Crowley, but I’m making a conscious effort now to get it right. I want to see you as you want to be seen.”

He doesn’t say _I love you. _He’s very close to saying it, but Antoinette’s eyes have begun to fill with tears again, and he doesn’t think there’s any need to complicate the process any more than he already has done. She isn’t fully sober, he remembers. He needs to get her home, to let her rest, and they can discuss the rest of it when she’s in a better headspace.

“So, where’s the Bentley?” he asks her.

Antoinette just shakes her head. “Mayfair. Didn’t bring it here.”

“Why ever not?” Aziraphale asks.

Antoinette shrugs. “Wanted to experience things authentically,” she says. “Had this image of sad, heartbroken young woman who needed to drink her heart out. I _had _to call an Uber.”

“So we’ll need to call one to go home, as well.”

“Yes, angel. But what do you mean, we?”

“I’m coming back with you, of course,” Aziraphale says, helping Antoinette up. She stumbles a little, in her heels, and leans on him for support. His arm wraps around her waist, natural as anything. “Unless you don’t want me to?”  


She presses her forehead against the space between his neck and shoulder for a minute, takes a deep breath.

“Please don’t leave me,” she says.

Aziraphale knows she’s still very drunk, to be this open about her needs. His chest hurts, knowing that things have escalated to this level, and he silently vows to himself to do all he can to ensure that she never feels this miserable again.

“I don’t know how to call an Uber,” he tells her. He knows she knows this, but saying it aloud seems to help. “I’ll ask Michelle?”  


Antoinette nods, carefully untangles herself from him, and steps away. Her gait is wobbly, as if testing to see if her legs still work.

“I need to thank Tanya, too,” she says. “Let’s say our goodbyes and leave.”

-

The Uber driver turns the radio on, and of course, Lorde begins to play. That too, “_A World Alone_,” out of all of her music.

“Ah, a bebop,” Aziraphale remarks, cheerfully.

The Uber driver makes a noise that sounds like a croak.

“You look very lovely in that dress,” Aziraphale says, softly, for Antoinette’s ears only. “Silver is really your colour.”

“Is that so?” Antoinette murmurs.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says. He moves a little, angling his head so that it rests on her shoulder. She angles her head so that it rests on his head. “You’re very beautiful.”

“I’m a demon,” she whispers. “I’m not beautiful.”

“You’re the original temptation,” Aziraphale whispers back. “You’re the most beautiful, and I will not hear a word against it.”

They’re both silent for a bit, and then Aziraphale murmurs, “I like the lyrics of this song. This song, too. It’s comforting.”

“Comforting how, angel?”

“_You’re my best friend, and we’re dancing in the world alone?_” Aziraphale says. “Sounds like us, doesn’t it? On our own side?”

“I thought,” Antoinette murmurs, “that there was no our side.”

Aziraphale’s arms tighten around her. “I’ve hurt you so much, in the past,” he says, softly. “I know it doesn’t make things right, but I was afraid; afraid that they would come for you, and destroy you. I didn’t realise that it was inevitable that our previous sides would do that, anyway. I didn’t realise that, together, on our own side, we were safer and happier than we’d ever been with them. But I understand this now. And I’m doing my best to do better by you.”

Antoinette makes a noise that could be a choked-up laugh.

“I know,” she whispers. “I know you are. And I understand, you know. I belonged Upstairs once, too. I know what it’s like, and I know why you reacted the way you did.”

“Still,” Aziraphale says. He moves a little, and gently kisses the top of her head. “You did not deserve that. And I am going to spend the rest of eternity showing you how much I care for you. I don’t know if it’ll make up, if _anything _will ever make up. But it’s all I can do.”

“_Angel_,” Antoinette says, tenderly, but he can hear the astonishment in her voice, clear as day. “Don’t beat yourself up like that. I forgive you.”

Those three words carry a strange sort of weight. Aziraphale and Antoinette are silent, the rest of the car ride back.

-

They’re in Antoinette’s Mayfair apartment. Aziraphale miracles himself sleepwear, and watches as Antoinette merely pulls off her silver dress, removes her boots, and flops over in bed, in lace lingerie.

“Antoinette,” he says, gently. “Is it comfortable, sleeping in that?”

She turns to face him. “It makes me feel, well. Nice. Like I belong to my body.”

It’s dark green lace, very tasteful. Not her usual colour, but it makes the yellow of her eyes look softer somehow, more buttercup mellow, and makes the red of her hair look more vibrant. Against her skin it somehow looks like it belongs there, and lying in bed with her legs stretched out and her shoulder length hair fluffed out in every possible direction on the pillow, she looks like the sort of woman whom men spend years painting oil portraits of, still never quite managing to capture the complete essence of her beauty.

Aziraphale doesn’t think he can express all this, so he settles for, “You look exquisite. Very beautiful.”

She makes a little noise, one of those stutters he’s so used to hearing from her. A lot of her verbal communication consists of little noises that, strictly speaking, are not words in any language. It’s as if she feels so deeply that she doesn’t know what to do with it. Aziraphale thinks he can understand that.

“Not my usual colour, but the shop girl said it’d bring out my hair,” she admits.

“It suits you,” Aziraphale says, almost reverently.

She gives him a crooked smile.

“Angel,” she says, after a moment of quiet. “I know you don’t usually sleep, but, just this once, do you think you could lie down next to me? And hold me?”  


She doesn’t say anything that implies that she needs this, but the fact that she’s asking betrays how important it is to her. Aziraphale can see something in her eyes, something almost unreadable (or at least, something that would be unreadable to anyone who hasn’t been friends with her for six millennia) that seems to say, _take care of me._

He is a Principality, after all. His duty is to take care of all beings of the Earth, and even if the celestial being across him started out as belonging to Hell, he knows she’s chosen Earth now. And maybe, she’s chosen him. Maybe she’s been choosing him this whole time.

He knows he would choose her too, as many times as she needs. Wordlessly, he slips into bed beside her, puts his arms around her, and pulls her close to him. She moves, pressing the sharp angles of her body against his softer, rounder curves.

“Goodnight,” she whispers, before she miracles the lights off. Even such a tiny miracle seems to have exhausted her, because Aziraphale can tell that she’s already slipped into sleep.

Carefully, he miracles away the hangover that she is sure to get if she sleeps like this. He miracles the alcohol away, too. It’s impossible to get a good night’s rest with that stuff wreaking havoc in the body.

Aziraphale doesn’t intend to fall asleep. He rests his head on her, and closes his eyes. When he wakes up again, the bed is empty.

-

Aziraphale wakes up to the smell of pancakes.

Antoinette is in the kitchen, putting together breakfast on a tray. She doesn’t see him come in.

Aziraphale notices pancakes, orange juice, honey, blueberry syrup and what looks like a vanilla muffin from his favourite bakery down the street. Something inside his heart melts.

“Good morning,” he says. “Did you sleep well?”  


Antoinette turns so suddenly she almost knocks the juice over (thank Somebody for miracles.) She isn’t wearing her sunglasses, and Aziraphale is struck by the unexpected beauty of seeing her like this, early in the morning. Not very stylish, not very put-together, but lovely all the same.

Her eyes are beautiful, of course. Her hair, though, is all over the place. A small part of it looks like it’s forming a clump.

“Yes,” she says. “Slept like a baby.” She picks up the tray, and props it on the breakfast table, making a gesture with her hands that obviously means, _Sit down and eat._

Aziraphale does just that. While he’s eating, she fixes herself a coffee, and sits opposite him at the table, taking small sips and watching him savour breakfast.

“These are delicious,” Aziraphale says, once he’s done devouring the entire meal. “Thank you, my love.”

“Uh, about that,” Antoinette says. Without her sunglasses on, Aziraphale can see her eyes, and they’re brilliantly expressive. “I think we should talk about what happened last night.”

“Which part of it?” Aziraphale asked.

Antoinette shrugs, looks away. “You’re a good friend to me, angel.”

Aziraphale frowns, thinking. Then, carefully, he reaches out, takes her hand across the table.

“You’re the best friend I could ever have asked for, Antoinette,” he says. He watches her as she smiles, almost involuntarily, and her cheeks pinken almost imperceivably. “You’ve been here for me over the millennia, been so kind, so patient, so gentle, so understanding.” 

She gives him a look, a look that says: _I’m a demon, do not test me._

Aziraphale is not afraid of that look. He is an angel in love. Some things need to be said.

“You’ve been so considerate and sincere, Antoinette. And it’s not just that, you’re genuinely a wonderful person,” he says, tightening his hold on her hand ever so slightly. “I suppose it’s unsurprising that I fell in love with you, really.”

More stuttering. Antoinette’s eyebrows raise so far up that they look like they’re trying to leave her face. If possible, she looks even more stunned then she’d done all that time ago back at Eden when he’d told her that he’d given the flaming sword away.

“You… what?” she asks.

“I’ll say it as many times as you need me to,” he says, gently. “I love you. And I have reason to believe that you love me, too.”

“And what reason would that be?” she asks. She’s blushing, even though he can tell that she’s trying to will it away.

“Well, for one, I can sense love, being an angel,” Aziraphale points out. “Last night, you likely weren’t making the conscious effort to conceal it from me. It all washed over me, though I wasn’t really paying much attention to _that _at the time. I was more busy seeing that you would be alright.”

“And I am,” Antoinette says. “I _promise _I am.”

“Yes, of course,” Aziraphale says. “I know you are, my love. You’re very resilient, and strong, and brave. Back to explaining how I knew, though: I suspect you’ve been trying to tell me, over the years. Demons aren’t nice, aren’t kind, you’ve mentioned, unless they have selfish reasons. You have taken such good care of me over the eras. If you weren’t doing it to be kind, and you were doing it for your own happiness – isn’t that, in itself, a form of love? I’m so sorry I didn’t recognize it for what it was. You’ve shown me, time and again, that you were on my side. It took me so very long to catch up.”

“Hey,” Antoinette says. “No more apologies, I won’t have it.”

“What can I do to make it better?” Aziraphale asks.

Antoinette smiles.

“For starters, you can kiss me.”

-

They begin with the kiss, but it quickly progresses into something more. Aziraphale leads Antoinette to the bedroom, and she lets him take charge. He presses her against the mattress, and gently begins to undress her, after she nods her head in permission.

“I’ve been wanting to do this for so long, my darling,” he says.

That Aziraphale would be chatty during sex checks out, Antoinette figures.

He begins to trails kisses down her body, with no fixed pattern, as far as she can tell. He kisses her neck, her belly, the side of her face, the gap between her breasts, her inner arm, the bony bit of her hipbone, the inside of her wrist, the other side of her face, the centre of her neck, the side of her mouth, so on and so forth.

He doesn’t remove the lingerie at first, and when he does, he does it almost reverently. One of his hands comes to rest on her breasts, and he looks at her, gently.

“Is this alright?”

“Mmf,” she says, nodding. She’s always wished for them to be bigger, but her body’s not built to accumulate human curves. She was a snake first and a snake foremost. Having any sort of breasts is, in itself, a miracle.

“They’re very beautiful,” Aziraphale says, pressing kisses onto her chest.

“You can call them my tits, I promise they will not be offended,” Antoinette says, and then he begins to undo the rest of the lace, and move his mouth further down her body, and she doesn’t really say much, at all.

-

Post-orgasm Antoinette is endearingly tired, and gently propels Aziraphale down on the bed next to her, before curling around him and closing her eyes. To her credit, she’s come four times in less than 90 minutes. Aziraphale feels like he’s still processing, and he isn’t the one who’s orgasmed multiple times, so it’s difficult for him to imagine how she must be feeling right now. Wrung out, maybe – but she turns to smile at him, and the smile she shoots him is bright and dazzling, like any one of the numerous star clusters she’d shaped and left out there in space, for the sheer thrill of it. He can feel the happiness and love radiating out of her, and it makes his heart feel like it’ll explode from the warmth and gratitude of it.

“’M sorry, I can’t really, return the favour right now,” she says, and it sounds like she’s struggling to stay awake long enough to say it. “Apparently this human vessel… is… easily overwhelmed.”

_Nobody would call four orgasms easily overwhelmed_, Aziraphale thinks, but he suspects voicing this thought will lead to the entire “_But I’m a demon_” conversation again, and he isn’t sure he wants to rehash that just yet. Not when Antoinette is looking so peaceful and open, lying next to him.

“There’s no rush,” Aziraphale says instead, kissing her forehead. “We have all the time in the world.”

He also doesn’t say, _you’re beautiful when you come. I know you’re probably embarrassed about the noises you made during sex, but I think they were lovely. I think everything you do is lovely. I’ve never loved anyone this much before. Thank you for trusting me to pleasure you. Thank you for letting me see and hold and feel and touch your body. Thank you for giving me a chance, even if it took me so long to understand what you were saying._

He doesn’t say any of those things, because she’s tired, and she’s falling asleep. But he knows she’ll wake up soon, and when she does, he will say _all _of those things. He will keep saying these things, until she believes them, until they’re imprinted on her memory so firmly that she can’t possibly forget. He will do everything he can, to make her feel loved.

-

Later on, on a tumblr account that nobody knows she has, Antoinette will make the first post tagged “aj speaks” in over an year, and she’ll get 12 anon asks congratulating her, no demonic intervention needed. She’ll change her blog title to “LOVE IS REAL, APPARENTLY.”

After dinner, for which Aziraphale orders takeout from a place they both like, and feeds her directly from his fork, which would be embarrassing if she weren’t so entirely besotted, they both sit on Antoinette’s sofa, next to each other, their thighs brushing, holding hands. Antoinette turns on the TV, but neither of them are watching.

“If it’s not too personal,” Aziraphale says, and she turns immediately, taking him in (the shape of his face, the way the light from the television plays off it, the way his hands are fidgeting with nothing in particular, but still moving), waiting. “Do you think you could tell me a little bit more about your experience with gender? Michelle told me over the phone that you said you identify as genderfluid?”

Antoinette nods, gives him an appraising look. “Yeah, I can tell you.”

“Good. I mean,” Aziraphale fiddles with the remote, turns the television volume down. “I think I’m probably male-aligned but agender, you know? People perceive me as a man most of the time, and it doesn’t bother me. I like my body, but I don’t really feel… a gendered attachment to it. I want to understand how you feel. As much as I can, at least. And as much as you’re ready to tell me.”

“I’m ready to tell you everything,” Antoinette says, taking the remote from his hands and flicking the TV off, neatly. She moves a little, sprawling over in the sofa, putting her head on his lap. “This okay?”

“Most certainly,” Aziraphale says. He gently puts one of his own hands on her head, moving a strand of hair out of her eyes. “Is this fine with you?”

“More than fine, angel,” she says, smiling. It’s a bright smile, as bright as the stars she’d put up in the emptiness of space, so many lifetimes ago.

“So,” she says, closing her eyes. “You want to hear the Antoinette J. Crowley gender story.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale confirms.

“Okay,” Antoinette says. She gets up abruptly, and moves off the sofa. “I’m going to make us tea,” she explains. “And then I’ll tell you everything.”

“Looking forward to it,” Aziraphale says.

Antoinette smiles at him before she leaves the room. It’s not just a smile; it’s also a promise.

Aziraphale smiles right back.

**Author's Note:**

> "Cassandra's Night Out" does not exist, and Tanya and Michelle are (unfortunately) not inspired by anybody I know. that said, if anyone wants to marry me & start an inclusive queer club where people play monopoly and read e e cummings poetry to each other and everybody cries, well. feel free to propose is all I'm saying.
> 
> if there's interest, i am absolutely ready to write a smut epilogue featuring all 4 of Antoinette's orgasms (RIP) !!
> 
> i remember reading a fic a few weeks (???) / months (??) ago, in which Crowley wants to go by Anthony only, and Aziraphale figures it out on his own, and while i did write this thing very much independently, i wanted to like, link it in here as "similar reading" or whatever, but unfortunately i cannot find it????? uh. if anyone knows what i'm talking about, or has more fic with the same trope pls let me know??
> 
> there's something else i wanted to put in end notes... i don't remember what it is, though. anyway!!! thanks for reading, hope you liked <3


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